


Heaven Like You

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Drugs, F/M, Nightmares, Non Consensual, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:41:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The drugs turn their visions of each other into nightmarish portraits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven Like You

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for torture and non-con.

It sounds silly to say aloud, but the only thing he's ever really wanted from her is respect. He's spent every day aboard his godforsaken ship gunning for it, turning to her first when a tactical maneuver goes well and avoiding her gaze when it doesn't. The flirting, the teasing—it's all a secret language where every phrase and gesture means the same thing: _Please notice me_. She's translated much more complicated codes; he's seen her do it. If there's anything Uhura understands, it's the art of communication.

When she slaps him, it stings, but not physically. Even like this, she's speaking to him.

"Get in the tub," she orders. It's old-fashioned with claw feet like the one his mother had when he was a child. He crawls in, cowering like an eight-year-old boy with his hands bound behind his back. Uhura presses the flat of her palm to his bare chest and pushes him down to a supine position.

Maybe he is a boy. Yes—in her presence, that's all he is.

She starts to pour in the ice. He screams as a thousand needles of freezing steel plunge into his skin and down to the bone all at once, his core temperature dropping. He shudders and twists, the edges of the cloudy cubes burning invisible lines into his flesh. She looks at him as though the only thing she's ever wanted has been to hurt him just like this, to make him writhe and howl for his mother, who's always been just too far out of earshot to answer his cries, even when she was just in the next room.

His fingers go numb first. Somehow, he can see his lips, the way they go from dark pink to faint violet, the vibrant color rushing out, as if in a panic.

"You're nothing to me," she says, flatly. "You're nothing to anyone. You'll die like this: a helpless little boy too scared not to follow an order."

Because it's _her_ , he thinks. He'll defy a million higher ranking officials and tell any ambassador with a bad attitude to go to hell, but for her, he'd do anything. If he doesn't beg her to let him go, maybe she'll respect him then.

She pours in ice cold water to lower the temperature further. He can actually feel his pulse slowing. He's not sure when the rest of his extremities went numb, but they're long gone now. Perhaps he doesn't need them anymore. Water droplets stick to his eyelashes as they droop down to his cheeks.

"Too scared," she repeats.

He shifts down against the stiff, jagged ice so his head tilts back, the water flooding into his open mouth.

*

She won't admit it to anyone, but the only thing she's ever wanted from him is respect. She can live with the constant teasing remarks in passing when they're off-duty, as well as the occasional leers and jokes, as long as he's professional on the bridge and during missions, when it really counts. He's had so many opportunities to prove himself to their commanding officers and crew and she just wants to do her job to the best of her ability, maybe get even commended once in a while. Maybe, just maybe, Kirk will take a look at her one day and really _notice_ her for more than just the length of her uniform skirt.

Today is not that day. He reaches for her under the desk and pulls her forward by her ponytail.

"Don't be coy," he warns. It's dark and humid under the desk, the room's temperature up past even Vulcan levels of comfort, and the lights flickering above them at a dim thirty percent. Her hands are tied with a firm knot of rope—something that can leave its mark—and Kirk pushes her down with a boot against the delicate bone of her shoulder.

He wants her to be a little girl. That's all he's ever seen her as.

He moves to open up his trousers and she leans her head away, unable to look at what he has in store for her. She growls and twists when he grabs her hair again, resisting even as he drags her forward, leads her to his cock. He smirks down at her as though the only thing he's ever wanted is to tame her just like this, to demonstrate her true place on a ship dominated by men, to prove to her that she's only here because of sexual favors and glances in the other direction.

The tears come without warning. Somehow, she can see his mouth opening in pleasure, even though her eyes are squeezed shut, burning with trapped saline.

"You're nothing to me," he hisses. "You're nothing to anyone. This is all your tongue is good for, all it's ever done for any man, little girl."

Why _him_ , she asks herself. All she ever wanted was to trust him, to know a man that would, without fail, take care of her and look out for her, even if she's merely one of many. If she doesn't struggle or cry, maybe he'll respect her then.

He releases suddenly and, purely on instinct, she spits his come onto the floor. The steel of his blade is cold in contrast to the heat of the room as he reaches down and plunges it into her vulnerable flesh. Her head hits the hard, unyielding floor and her lashes lift to free the tears. She doesn't need to hold them back anymore.

"Little girl," he repeats.

She turns onto her side and watches with blurring vision as his boots tread away from her, the blood starting to pool inside her mouth.

*

They were screaming when the others found them. Locked in a cell together, having opposite adverse reactions to whatever drugs the fish-scaled bastards (McCoy's term) had given them: him, shivering and freezing cold to the touch, and her, sweating bullets, writhing in the hot confines of her clothes. The one similarity: hallucinatory dreams. They were screaming—so loud and so pained that the away team members thought there was no hope, wondered if the two would ever live to recover.

Of course, McCoy is a magic man. They both know this for sure when they wake up to find themselves in sickbay, tricorders moving dutifully over their bodies. They look over and find each other in adjoining beds and they both instinctually shudder, remembering.

"Sounded like cats getting skinned down there," McCoy says, evaluating his readings. "What the hell were you dreaming about, anyway?"

"Monsters," Kirk whispers, his gaze firmly locked on the ceiling.

"Monsters," Uhura agrees, afraid to shut her eyes.

"You two see the worst kind of monsters every day," McCoy says, walking away from the beds. They both bite back a plea for him to stay.

"Not like this," Kirk says.

McCoy comes back to find Uhura hiding tears behind her palm and Kirk's eyes glazed over, entirely too distant for his tastes. "Should see the ship counselor," he murmurs, reaching for a pair of sedatives in his pocket.

Hours later, they each wake up in their own quarters, in their own beds, cradled by the ship's soft, constant hum and preset temperatures. Like this, everything is as normal and safe as it can be.

But it doesn't work. Kirk sits up in bed and throws the covers off, changing into a dark top and dark pants. Wherever his bloodied, soiled uniform has gone, he doesn't quite know. He'll see it again soon enough. He crosses the room quickly, headed for the door, says, "Computer, locate Lieutenant Uhura."

Then the door opens and she's there, shifting uneasily in regulation pajamas, her hair down. No trace of the chill he saw in his dream, only soft, molten brown eyes, silently pleading with him.

He pulls her inside and once the door whooshes shut, that's when they find each other, arms strong and unrelenting in their reaching, their holding tight. The dark caramel curve of her ear: a delicate sculpture coming to rest against his cheek. The short, bristling slope of the hair along the back of his neck: a soft resting pad for her roaming fingertips.

Like this, they could never see each other any differently.

"You can hurt me so much," she whispers, and he thinks to himself that she's never more beautiful than when she confronts her fears.

"Look at me," he says and she does, looking directly into his eyes, which shine brighter than the polished toes of his boots, brighter than the stars.

Out here, where there's no way of knowing when or how reality ends and begins, they're nothing: little girl, little boy.


End file.
